As I write this, I can smell the fragrance of mesquite and walnut wood mixed with country-style pork ribs and the intoxicating meatiness of sirloin-tip roast. My Masterbuilt electric smoker spews clouds of white smoke into the suburban network and I am disturbing my neighbors with the aroma of freshly smoked meat. Today is a celebration of the meat.

Meat. Love it. A luxurious and delicious frontal lobe benefit. Man is more intelligent than other animals, therefore, he will make a spear, kill what he needs and roast it over the fire. I am an unapologetic apex predator and when in this mindset, there is no amount of tofu, fresh veggies, or nuts to satisfy my craving for the fatty, lustful, carnal craving for freshly smoked meat.

I don’t care what meat it is. Game, beef, poultry or lamb, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes I crave meat. I am comfortable with my carnal desires and the sins of smoked meat.

It’s like an ancient caveman jumps into the cockpit of my brain and takes over. I call him Gug. Gug is my friend and although his language skills are not very good, we understand him. The meat is good. Fire is your friend. Cook the meat with firewood.

The smoker must have come from the Home Shopping Network. It is a Christmas present from my wife that I received many moons ago. My ancestor Gug approves of the ease of turning the electric thermostat to the perfect cooking temperature, although he doesn’t understand how it works. Gug also enjoys drinking some iced pineapple liqueur with me as I write this article. Life is good for us knuckle-dragging Neanderthals.

Gug doesn’t understand the idea of ​​looking for food in a grocery store with a stainless steel cart. Your small, undeveloped brain gets confused with such strange ideas. Gug evolved to hunt, gather, eat, and breed.

Gug is a good friend. It links me to my past. Long before political correctness, childhood obesity, and lean tofu, there was Gug. There are moments as a man when it’s important to ignore my inner caveman. Gug can get me in trouble. Gug needs to stay home during weddings, cocktails and heated discussions with PETA supporters. I’m not ashamed of my inner Neanderthal and my love of meat. It’s just that you can’t wear a loincloth all the time and be taken seriously.

I check the digital thermometer and see that the meat is a perfect medium raw. I rest the meat and pat Gug’s hand. Gug wants to eat now. He growls and has a puzzled expression on his face as I begin to grind coriander, parsley, lemon juice, garlic, and extra virgin olive oil in the blender to make a chimichurri sauce to complement the meat.

Country ribs need a little more smoking, so I open another jar of cold moonshine. This time it’s apple pie and Gug grins a big toothless grin. No hurry. I smile too and wait patiently for a slight breeze to blow under my loincloth. This is a wonderful meat-inspired caveman Sunday.

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